


A Common Solution

by SailorChibi



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Age Play, Age Play Little Q (James Bond), Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Carrying, Competent Q, Cuddling, Daddy James Bond, Diapers, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Headspace, Hurt/Comfort, Infantilism, James Bond Has Issues, James Bond Takes Care of Q, James Bond is in way over his head, Little Headspace, Little Q, M | Olivia Mansfield Lives, M | Olivia Mansfield is manipulative, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pacifiers, Platonic Cuddling, Possessive James Bond, Pre-Skyfall, Protective James Bond, Protective Q, Q has issues, Q is a Brat, Q is a badass with computers, Shooting, Snarky Q, alternate universe - littles are known, aromantic James Bond, bottles, caregiver james bond, non sexual age play, non sexual infantilism, she and Bond have a very strange relationship, so they're a perfect fit really, takes place in a nebulous timeline before skyfall, thumb sucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2020-11-23 22:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20896940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: Bond has been ignoring his biological needs. Boothroyd is retiring and MI6 is in need of a new Quartermaster. What do these two things have in common? They both have an easy solution... if only M can get Bond to extract a certain hacker.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yup, another 00Q age play fic. I am in love with them, and happily have someone who is willing to commission me!

"I think that's your phone."

James Bond broke away from the lovely set of breasts he'd been kissing, looking up at the woman's face. He couldn't remember her name - Christy? Charlie? Chantal? - but then, he'd never needed to know a woman's name in order to take her to bed. Up until now, he'd been successfully ignoring the sound of his phone. But the woman - Chandra, maybe? - was looking both annoyed and impatient, her eyes flicking meaningfully towards where his trousers had ended up. There was a very distinct chime coming from the pocket of said trousers.

"It hasn't stopped for over fifteen minutes," she went on. "Perhaps it's important?" Her mouth tugged down at the corners. "Perhaps your _girlfriend_ is looking for you?"

"There's no girlfriend. Or wife," Bond said, anticipating her next query and deciding to cut it off at the pass. He sighed heavily and pushed him up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. 

It probably wouldn't help if he explained that there would _never_ be a wife or girlfriend, thank you very much. As an aromantic man, Bond had very little interest in relationships. His sexuality worked well for his job, because he loved sex and, as a 00-agent, had more than his fair share of it in the regular course of a mission - but he'd consumed enough alcohol that he couldn't remember exactly what he'd told Charlotte(?) to get her up here, so it was entirely possible she thought this was going to go somewhere tomorrow morning. 

He got up and walked over to his trousers, knowing she was watching him, and knelt to get his phone. Bond sighed as he glanced at the screen and the increasingly long list of text messages. Patience wasn't exactly high on M's list of virtues. She wanted to see him in her office immediately. He sat there for a moment, strongly contemplating chucking his phone out the window and pretending that it had been stolen. She probably wouldn't believe that excuse, but that had never stopped him before. At least it would buy him a little longer before he had to meet with her...

"Well?" Chelsea(??) demanded.

"It's my mother," Bond said shortly. "She's fallen in the bath and needs my help." He smirked to himself, grabbing his boxers and pulling them on, followed quickly by his trousers and shirt.

"Oh, how awful! Do you need help?" Chrissy(???) asked, sitting up.

Bond shook his head. "No. Enjoy the room. Have a good night." He grabbed his blazer, gave her a polite nod, and sauntered out the door.

It didn't take long for him to make his way back to MI6. Because it was after midnight, the place was fairly quiet for once. No one looked him in the eye as he made his way towards M's office, which usually meant one of two things: either his reputation was proceeding him even more strongly than normal, or M was pissed. Based on Bond's luck, he was willing to bet it was the latter. He wasn't _nearly_ drunk enough for this, and braced him inwardly as he threw open the door to M's office and walked in. He slung himself down in the chair before her desk and stared at her.

She stared back, deadpan, and said, "Did I ruin your night?"

"Yes," Bond said.

"Good," M said, leaning back in her chair. "I have a mission for you, and I need you relatively clear-headed."

Bond narrowed his eyes slightly. "What sort of mission?"

"Boothroyd is preparing to retire," M announced. It seemed like a non sequitur, yet Bond knew better. This was M they were talking about. Her brain commonly leapt from thought to thought, leaving those who wouldn't keep up with her scrambling in the dust. He was not one of those people. His gaze dropped to the folders on M's desk. If Boothroyd was retiring, then that would leave MI6 without a Quartermaster. That would spell disaster in multiple ways.

"You need me to bring in the next Quartermaster?" Bond said sceptically. He didn't know much about computers, but that seemed like the sort of job that plenty of people who would be leaping at.

M gave a single, sharp nod. "Correct. We have someone in mind. I've given you all the information you need." She pushed the file across the desk. "This person is skilled. Very skilled. Unfortunately, he's in the hands of some less than desirable company. Your job is to remove him from that company by any means necessary and bring him back to MI6 by the end of November. Boothroyd is retiring at the end of December and insists that a transitional period will be necessary."

It was November 3rd, which meant he had just over three weeks to make this happen. That seemed unusually long for what should have been a simple retrieval mission. There was obviously more to the story that Bond was missing. He could see it in the subtle smirk on M's face: she knew something that he didn't, and she was thoroughly enjoying the moment. He glanced at the file on her desk but didn't reach for it just yet.

Instead, he said, "Should I expect that this person will cooperate?"

"Yes. I've been in touch with him personally," said M. "He's expressed a willingness to join MI6, provided we help him out. Naturally, I promised our best." 

"Naturally," Bond echoed. 

"This isn't one of your regular missions, 007. This person has the potential to bring MI6 to new heights. Their understanding of computers and other electronics is unparalleled. Because of that, I am fully expecting a great deal of resistance on the part of their former company. You must do whatever you can to bring them back safely," M said, her eyes boring into him.

Bond sobered slightly and nodded. At least the mission sounded interesting. And there had to be some level of difficulty to it. M was a bitch, but she wasn't the type of person to waste good resources on jobs that didn't warrant them. She wouldn't send a 00-agent unless she thought that a normal agent wouldn't be capable of handling it. Curiosity piqued, he stood and took the file from her desk. He'd look at it later, after he visited Boothroyd to be outfitted with whatever Q-branch deemed necessary for the mission. 

"I'll leave tonight," he announced, turning towards the door.

"Bond," M said.

He paused. "Yes?"

"Psych tells me that you are still ignoring their recommendations."

Because he was facing the door, Bond let himself grimace. "That would be correct."

"Why?"

"Because it's a recommendation, not an order?" Bond said flippantly.

"Bond," M said again, her voice sterner this time. "You are a Caregiver, regardless of whether you want to acknowledge that fact or not."

"I know what I am," Bond said, a little more sharply than he'd intended. It had hung over him his entire life: an extra barrier that he had to fight against in order to make people see him as more than the standard stereotype. Caregivers weren’t just soft, malleable idiots good at solely caring for Littles.

In Bond’s case, he’d used his increased strength to get further in life than most people would ever dream of. More than one villain had gone down because they’d underestimated him and what he was capable of. Plus, though Bond wouldn’t have admitted it, the surge in protective instincts had been a help to his career as a 00-agent, not a hindrance. Particularly where Littles were involved.

However, there were downsides too. Caregivers had a biological need to care for someone built into them. So far, Bond had managed to assuage those needs by protecting people. Psych was of the opinion that that wasn’t enough for him, though. They insisted that he needed a Little of his own to care for to help balance him out – to keep those instincts from surging out of control and latching onto someone unsuitable, such as an enemy. Bond thought that was bullshit. He was fine the way he was.

“One would never know it from the way that you behave. If you’re not careful, you’ll end up putting a mission in jeopardy,” M told him. “You need focus. Letting your instincts roam wild is asking for trouble. We can’t have a rogue 00-agent running around.”

“I am not rogue,” Bond spit out. “I’m perfectly capable of doing my job.”

“For now,” M said. “It would be a pity if you could no longer be sent out on missions, 007.” Her tone, however, suggested opposite, with a clearly implied threat, and it made him bristle.

“Good thing you won’t have to,” Bond said. “I’m going to Q-branch to get suited up.” He left before she could say anything else, or before his anger could make say something that he would later regret.

He didn’t need, or want, a Little. Bond was good at his job. He lived for it. There was no space for a Little in his life. He’d tried once or twice when he was younger but had quickly realized that his job took up too much time and energy for him to even think about it. What kind of Little would be happy with a Caregiver who frequently had to leave the city for weeks, if not months, on end? What kind of Little would be okay with not even knowing what their Caregiver did for a job? What kind of Little would want a Caregiver who couldn’t make them a priority?

No one, that’s who. Bond had made his peace with that a long time ago. And so long as he could keep performing his job up to the standards that MI6 expected of him, he believed none of them, not even M, should be able to stick their noses into it. His next meeting with Psych was going to be _very_ interesting… for him, anyway.

Bond made his way down to Q-branch, which was surprisingly quiet given the time of day. He discovered why when he poked his head into Boothroyd’s office and found a cluster of people around Boothroyd’s desk. Something from within the circle popped and then crackled loudly; there was a hum of general appreciation from the group, and then scattered clapping when the crackling increased.

“Should I come back?” Bond said loudly, and several people jumped.

“007!” Boothroyd called out. “No, please. M wanted me to have you on your way as quickly as possible. We’ll continue later, everyone.”

Everyone else filed out with surprisingly excited expressions on their faces, which made Bond think that Q-branch was up to something which was going to increase M’s blood pressure by several points. Good. He smirked to himself as he entered Boothroyd’s office, giving the old man a onceover. Boothroyd was in his mid to late seventies, but he was surprisingly spry. His mental health hadn’t suffered in the least, either. 

Boothroyd gave him a knowing smile. “Trying to figure out why I’m retiring?”

“I know why. You can’t handle the headaches anymore,” Bond replied. That earned him a chuckle.

“Not at all. I like my job just fine, 007, headaches and all. But the timing of this was too fortunate on all accounts for me to pass up,” Boothroyd said with a mysterious smile. Bond narrowed his eyes slightly.

“This replacement must really be something,” he said.

“Oh yes. I’ve been monitoring his progress for several months now. He’s really something. Wasted on that current company of his, if you ask me. I’ve told M that he’ll be a real asset to the organization. Well worth the effort of extracting him, I’d say,” Boothroyd said, moving to pick up a small case.

Bond relaxed a little upon hearing those words, some of the tension from his little chat with M easing. Boothroyd was a good man, but his standards were notoriously high. Almost as high as M’s. He didn’t accept anyone who wasn’t good enough. If he thought that this new person was worth the effort, then they more than likely were, and that meant Bond wasn’t wasting his time on a wild goose chase. 

“I’m heading to the airport from here,” Bond told him.

“Good, good. The sooner you bring him back, the sooner I can start training him.” Boothroyd handed over the case. “This is the future Quartermaster in your hands, 007. Some would say the future of MI6.” His brown eyes glittered knowingly. “Treat him well.”

“I always do,” Bond said, tucking the case beneath his arm. Then he bid Boothroyd goodbye and headed out.


	2. Chapter 2

Q sat in front of the multiple computer screens and pretended like he was deaf. It was something that he had got plenty of practice in over the last several months. His fingers flew across the keys like he was completely unaware of the mixture of Spanish, German, Japanese and Italian flying around behind him. That was why he was here; that was why he’d been hired. Because he was the best.

He tensed when someone grabbed his upper arm in a tight grip, looking up slowly into the eyes of one of his – well. At one point Q would have called them employers, but a more suitable word now was probably ‘captor’ or even ‘jailer’. He’d been here for about two years, and approximately seven months ago everything had taken a turn for the worse. Business was failing in ways that not even Q could help, not that his captors believed that. They understood next to nothing about computers, and more often than not Q suspected they thought he was useless.

Which was a problem. Useless people weren’t kept around for long.

“You work harder.” The man holding Q’s arm squeezed hard, to the point where Q was certain he would have five dark bruises on his skin later. “You _work_.”

“I work,” Q said quietly. He’d learned a long time ago that none of them spoke English very well, and trying to talk to any of them in any other language generally got him slapped around. It was difficult enough holding himself together without adding that stress on top of everything else. 

The man sneered and released him with a shove, lumbering away to jabber at his mates in increasingly loud tones – they might have been talking Russian now, though Q was almost positive he heard some Mandarin Chinese, French and Czech mixed in. The sheer variety of languages that flowed around him on a daily bonus was mind-boggling sometimes. It suggested that his captors’ reach extended farther than they wanted him to know.

He knew anyway, of course. Their previous computer geek had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Q hadn’t learned about that little titbit of information until after he’d arrived at the island, and it was much too late to change his mind. It had been a monumentally stupid decision on his part in retrospect, but he’d also been nineteen, completely broke, and on the brink of being arrested or worse. His options had been limited at the time, and even more so now.

He kept his head bowed until the lot of them had left, then let out an aggrieved sigh. His temples throbbed with a bad headache, probably because he hadn’t slept in over three days. Q was honestly getting to the point where he was afraid to sleep, mostly because of the persistent thought that he might not wake up. As tensions rose, so did the danger Q was in.

But what could he do? Several weeks ago he’d hacked into the MI6 servers and left them some information. They had been curious, as expected, and their current quartermaster was outright intrigued. Q had almost started to hope that they might be motivated to do something… but now at least three weeks had passed with nothing. He’d come to the conclusion that he wasn’t important enough to MI6 for them to act. Which meant he was on his own, at the mercy of captors, in the middle of the ocean.

“I’m probably going to die here,” Q muttered, valiantly attempting to not hyperventilate at the mere thought. Computers and technology were his forte, not people. It would be child’s play to shut down the power on the island, or even cut off communication, even disable their weapons, but unless he had a way off the island that wouldn’t do him much good. There were no boats, only planes. Even if flying didn’t terrify him, he had no way to pilot a plane. Crashing and dying a fiery death wouldn’t help the situation.

He tried to steer his brain away from those thoughts and back to the matter at hand. But that was easier said than done. Before long, Q began hearing a distant popping sound. His fingers paused and he cocked his head, initially thinking that it was fireworks – and then realizing it was the sound of gunshots. His stomach sank and, without his focus, his bladder released, filling his pants with warm urine. 

“Damnit!” Q quickly set his servers to back-up – it was a nightly ritual, but from the sound of it he wasn’t going to have the luxury of waiting until night this time – and lurched to his feet. He hurriedly stripped his lower half and clumsily wiped at himself, re-donning another pair of pants.

His captors didn’t know he was a Little. Q had taken great lengths to hide that information from them. At first, he’d been able to order nappies off the internet and have them delivered to a secure location, where a messenger would pick packages up and bring them to Q. But it had been some time since then. Now, he made do with cotton pants and devoting far too much attention to not soiling himself. He was successful to some degree, but apparently gunshots weren’t helping the matter.

No sooner had he dragged a pair of denim jeans up his thighs and fastened them shut than the door was kicked open. A man stalked inside, gun held aloft, eyes flicking around the cramped room like a predator searching for prey. Q stayed still, the back of his neck prickling with wariness as cold blue eyes settled onto him. They looked at each other for a long, frozen moment.

Then the man said, “You’re Q? Boothroyd’s boy?”

The familiar name caught Q’s attention instantly. “What?”

“You are.” The man didn’t relax, but he did lower his gun slightly. “I’m Bond. James Bond. Agent 007. I’ve been sent to extract you.” He reached into his jacket and fished out a set of credentials, which he flashed in Q’s direction. The MI6 insignia was unmistakable.

Q blinked dumbly, shocked to his core. “You have?”

“I have. And I suspect that very shortly reinforcements are going to show up, so we need to leave now,” Bond said, glancing over his shoulder.

MI6 had sent someone for him. Q wasn’t wholly sure what to do with that information. He stared at Bond in wonder, slightly overwhelmed by how nice it felt to hear an English accent again, and reassessed Bond based on the new information. Blond hair fell into blue eyes, which no longer looked cold but merely watchful. Bond was tall and built broad; Q suspected the impeccable, tailored black suit hit a well-muscled body.

“Q!” Bond said, sharper this time, and Q jolted into action.

“Right, leaving,” he said in a high-pitched voice. Most of what was here was of no concern to him. He’d shown up with nothing but the clothing on his body. Everything, including the technology, had been provided. It was a risk to go with a perfect stranger, even a 00-agent, but the alternative was certain death. It took seconds for Q to decide it was better to take his chances.

He crossed over to the desk and took a quick look at the screens, relieved to see that the necessary information had finished uploading. Still, he quickly unplugged his laptop and turned to tuck it into the bag. A hand grabbed his wrist and Q stilled in surprise, staring at the tanned hand against his pale skin. A little rush of sensation shot up Q’s arm, but he couldn’t tell if it was because he’d gone so long without human touch or… or what?

“Leave the laptop,” Bond ordered. “There could be trackers on it.”

“There’s not! It’s my laptop; I would know,” Q said, offended by the very notion. “These people don’t know anything about –”

The door was kicked in for a second time in less than five minutes. Q barely bit back a startled shriek as Bond grabbed the laptop out of his hands and hurtled it at the first man who burst through the door. The laptop hit the man in the face and he went down cold, tripping up those behind them. Bond shot the lot of them and then gripped Q’s wrist, none too gently dragging him towards the door.

“We need to get out of here quickly or we’ll have the whole island coming down on our heads,” he snapped.

“Wait! Wait!” Q dug in his heels and wiggled free, darting back to his desk.

“Q, we don’t have fucking time for this!” Bond hissed.

“I want to just – ha!” Q made a triumphant sound as he plugged in his thumb drive to one of the remaining laptops. The virus on it would race through their systems and destroy everything, leaving Q’s private servers as the only copy of everything he’d worked on for the past two years.

Overhead, the lights flickered and went out.

Bond looked up. “Was that you?”

“Yes,” Q said, a thin quiver running through him when Bond climbed over the bodies and gestured for Q to follow. A very large part of Q wanted to have a breakdown and curl up in the corner, but he held himself together through pure force of will. This was his one change at getting out of here alive. He couldn’t screw it up.

He emerged out into the corridor for the first time in weeks. It was eerily quiet without the hum of computers, and he could barely see Bond in the dim emergency lighting. Bond grabbed his wrist again and pulled, hauling Q to the right. Q went with him, because he didn’t know the building well enough to be able to say whether they were heading in the right direction or not.

“It’s 007,” Bond hissed as they ran. “We could use some guidance out of here.”

“Who are you talking to?” Q demanded.

“Q-branch,” Bond said shortly, stopping abruptly. They’d come to a fork. “Which way? Don’t – don’t bloody tell me you don’t know! That’s what you’re there for, isn’t it?”

Q shoved his glasses up his nose, listening to Bond’s increasingly irate rant. Whoever was on the other end didn’t seem to be very useful. The firewalls and protection that Q had put into place were, to put it simply, laughable for anyone worth their salt. After all, his captors didn’t know enough to know the difference and Q wasn’t overly keen on protecting people who had treated him like shit.

“Do you have a mobile?” he asked Bond.

Bond frowned. “What? Yes. Why?”

“Let me see,” Q said, holding out a hand.

“What? Yes, I’m here,” Bond said into his earpiece, dumping his phone into Q’s hand. It was an older model, presumably designed to be sturdy. Q hacked into it easily.

“Come on now, where are you?” he muttered to himself, fingers tapping away.

“Honestly, Q-branch is absolute shit sometimes,” Bond muttered at last, ripping his earpiece off and stuffing it into a pocket. “I hope the lot of them retire with Boothroyd, bunch of useless – what are you doing?!”

Triumphantly, Q held up the mobile. The screen now displayed a blueprint of the building. Bond’s mouth fell open and he seized the mobile, looking at the blueprint more closely, then lowered the phone to stare at Q.

“If you can do this, why the hell are you still here?” he asked.

“Did you not notice the men with guns?” Q said crossly. “Or the fact that the only way off this island is via plane? I don’t know how to pilot one, and I hardly think anyone is going to agree to fly me out.” He shuddered inwardly at the thought of flying and loosely wrapped his arms around himself, trying hard not to dwell on that bit of the rescue.

“Right,” Bond said, but there was something new in his expression when he looked at Q. “Come on, then.” He swiftly removed the magazine from his gun and replaced it with a new one. “Stay close and don’t fall behind, got it? Let me know which way to go.”

“Got it,” Q whispered, swallowing hard. “Turn left.”


	3. Chapter 3

The extraction was, overall, going a lot easier than Bond had expected it would when he first opened up the file that M had given him. He'd skimmed it briefly during his flight out here, learning about the boy - well, technically man, but you'd never know it to look at him. Q, and that was curiously the only name that Bond could find in the file, was in his very early thirties. He was tall but slender, looking like a good stiff breeze would be enough to knock him on his ass. Yet his technological prowess hadn't been overestimated. Bond's mobile was a clunky piece of shit, yet Q had managed to kill the power in less than two minutes.

This kid, Bond reflected, was interesting, to say the least. Most people would've freaked out at the amount of bullets flying by. Q was panicking, but he was also doing an admirable job of trying to hide it. He stuck close to Bond and obeyed when Bond gave him an order, which more than Bond could say for approximately 80% of the extractions he'd done over the course of his career. He'd got shot more than once because people thought they knew better than the seasoned 00-agent did.

"Right, let's go," Bond whispered, eyes sweeping the area.

"Go where?" Q asked.

"We're going to head for the airplane hanger. I hitched a ride in, and we're going to have to steal one to get out," Bond replied. It had taken some careful surveillance. He'd been extremely displeased to find that everything was done by planes. Boats were much easier to steal. But at this point, they didn't have much choice. Driving a boat right up to the island would've been too easily noticed.

Q turned a little paler, but nodded. "Okay."

Bond didn't have the time to spare to wonder about Q's reaction, because at that moment the shooting began again. He shot back a couple times, but gripped Q's shoulder and hauled the kid up. "Run!"

They ran towards the hanger and, more specifically, the plane that Bond had already picked out. It was small but easily maneuverable, and similar to the plane he'd first learned to pilot. Or at least, that was Bond's hope. One way or the other they were getting off this island. His hope was that, since Q had knocked out the power and none of their flight systems were working, these clowns would have a much harder time tracking their progress. If they could make it to the mainland, they could ditch the plane and head for a nearby safehouse.

Once there, they'd be able to recuperate for a few days before MI6 showed up to safely take Q back to London - because Bond knew the system well enough at this point to know that wouldn't be simultaneous. MI6 would have to make sure that they hadn't been followed, and that there weren't snipers lined around outside to take Q out the moment he stepped outside of said safehouse. But, once that was taken care of, at that point Q would no longer be his concern, and Bond would happily accept his next mission and go on to do what he did best: having sex, shooting and blowing things up.

Hmm, speaking of blowing things up...

"Why are you smiling?" Q asked nervously.

"How are you with explosives?" Bond asked, genuinely curious and holding out his mobile.

Q took it as his expression turned calculating. "Well..."

Bond got an answer approximately eight minutes later, when the other airplane hanger promptly exploded. The hanger they were huddled in rattled from the force of it and they were on the _other side of the island_. He cast Q a slightly more respectful look, realizing that the boffin had potential to be dangerous if he could set off explosions like that without ever going near the source. Hopefully Q had taken out a couple dozen men with that stunt.

"Good job," Bond said crisply. "Now, let's go."

For the first time, Q balked. "Up there?"

"Yes, up there. Go!" Bond barked, leaving no room for argument. He practically shoved Q up the steps and into the two-seater airplane, launching himself into the pilot's seat. "Get the doors of the hanger open on my count. If you see people shooting, get down."

"Right," Q whispered; he was as white as sheet now, but Bond didn't have time to wonder why. 

He strapped himself in and took a cursory look at the controls of the plane. Close enough to what he remembered. He hit the button to start things up. As it rumbled to life beneath them, he was pretty sure that he heard Q whimper. Bond cast a sideways glance at him and saw that Q was visibly shaking, head tipped back against the seat and fingers clenched tightly around the mobile.

“Ready?” Bond shouted, but didn’t wait for an answer. Now that the other hanger had been destroyed, hordes of men would be descending on the one that remained. They had a limited amount of time to work with here.

He gripped the handle and leaned forward, squinting through the doors. Q whimpered as they began to move, and the distinct scent of urine filled the air. Bond ignored it, focusing on guiding the plane through the doors and out onto the runway. As soon as the nose emerged, people began shooting at it. He swore under his breath and reached over, gripping Q’s head and shoving it down. Just in case.

“Keep yourself down!” he commanded, speeding up. A sense of smug superiority ran through him as a couple of the idiots got too close and were summarily run over. They wouldn’t be getting back up.

“Oh god, oh god,” Q chanted, barely audible over the rumble of the engine.

Bond hit the right combination of buttons and tilted the handle back. The plane’s nose obediently rose, and he felt the lurch that indicated the wheels had left the ground. Still, he didn’t dare breathe until they were several feet into the air – until the pinging sound of bullets uselessly impacting against metal had stopped, probably because the guns they were using couldn’t shoot that high.

“We did it! Not a bad extraction,” Bond said, satisfied as he craned his neck to look. The island behind them was in complete darkness but for a handful of torches, or perhaps those were lights from mobile phones, at this distance he couldn’t be sure. He smirked to himself. Hopefully it would take them a while to figure out what Q had done with their systems, if they could fix them at all. 

Speaking of Q… he finally turned his attention back to his companion and saw that Q had his eyes squeezed shut and was practically hyperventilating. A nervous flyer. Bond should have guessed. It would be just his luck to get stuck with someone who couldn’t handle it, wouldn’t it? He tried not to sigh too loudly, though that got harder when he realized that Q had wet himself. That was not the reaction Bond would have expected from someone that MI6 wanted so desperately.

That was something that Bond would’ve expected of a Little, not an adult.

With a frown, he turned back to the controls and decided against trying to prompt Q into conversation. Instead, he set the plane to autopilot and grabbed his mobile off the floor of the plane where Q had dropped it. He typed out a quick update to Boothroyd and sent it, then shoved his mobile into his pocket. He’d destroy it later, since there was always a chance that it had been corrupted by what Q had done.

The flight took approximately four hours. At some point, Q either fell asleep or passed out. When they got to the mainland, Bond landed the plane as best he could on the beach. Q woke with a startled squeak as they landed – or crashed, depending on your definition of the word. Bond vastly preferred landed considering what he was working. He unhooked his belt and got up.

“What’s – what are you –” Q sputtered.

“Do you really think they wouldn’t have tracking devices on this plane? Frankly, I’m shocked they haven’t met us here. We need to get moving, unless you’d like to be kidnapped and ferreted straight back to where you came from. Only I’m sure this time the accommodations won’t be as pleasant,” Bond told him, reaching back to open the door. Sunlight and salty air rushed in.

“They weren’t pleasant last time,” Q said waspishly, but levered himself up and followed Bond off the plane.

People were already starting to approach. Bond took hold of Q’s arm and propelled Q across the slippery sand and up onto pavement, brain working on overdrive. They’d need disguises, or at least changes of clothing. And a vehicle. There was an MI6 safehouse about three hours away, but they couldn’t exactly walk there. That would both take too long and draw even more attention.

“Where are we going?” Q asked quietly as they joined the crowds. Neither one of them fit in. Not Bond, dressed in a tailored, if somewhat damaged, suit, and definitely not Q, tall and thin and pale as paper.

“We need new clothes,” Bond said. “And possibly a shower.”

Q reddened, fingers twitching anxiously at his trousers. He said nothing, but his embarrassment spoke volumes. He meekly followed Bond into a shop. Bond hurriedly threw together two pairs of jeans, two t-shirts, a jacket for himself, and a sweatshirt for Q that looked like it would fit. He was about to add a pair of pants when Q brushed past him and silently added a pair of Little’s nappies to the stack.

Bond froze.

Several things rushed through his mind all at once. M’s knowing smile. Her certainty that Bond was the _only_ 00-agent capable of handling this job. Her reminder about the fact that everyone at MI6 thought Bond needed a Little. Boothroyd’s comment about treating Q well. And then, on top of all that, the way Q had been acting, alternately obedient and prickly. The wetting. It all made too much bloody sense.

“You’re a Little,” Bond said, stunned.

“Um, yes?” Q said, like it was perfectly obvious and Bond was the one being an idiot. 

The saleswoman spoke up with a total. Bond mutely paid; he’d thought he was past the point of M willfully hiding shit that mattered it came to missions, but apparently not. Then again, had she told him that Q was a Little, he never would’ve accepted this mission. His skin prickled and he consciously took a step to the side, putting a bit more distance between the two of them.

Q clearly noticed, because he said, “You didn’t know. I figured you did. I was upfront with MI6…”

“They’re not always upfront with me,” Bond replied, working hard not to snap. This wasn’t Q’s fault. He couldn’t help being what he was anymore than Bond could help being a Caregiver. It wasn’t something that anyone chose.

“That seems like a terrible way to treat your agents,” Q observed, frowning severely. “What if my being a Little had compromised your extraction in some way? You wouldn’t have been prepared.”

Bond choked on a laugh, startled to hear the very argument he’d made before coming out of Q’s mouth. “I don’t disagree with you, but that’s what happens when you work for a spy agency.” He dropped his voice, conscious of eavesdroppers. “They like to hold information close to the vest and dispense a bit at a time. In this case, I suppose they thought that you being a Little didn’t matter.”

“Does it?” Q straightened his spine, looking Bond in the eye. “Matter?” He looked caught somewhere between proud and defiant, readying himself to be told something he’d no doubt heard countless times before. Society as a whole didn’t always react well to Littles trying to hold down jobs or have an adult headspace. Bond supposed it was only fair to expect the same attitude from a 00-agent.

He met Q’s gaze and said, “If it doesn’t matter to my employers, than it doesn’t matter to me. You were able to knock out the power to that whole island with just my mobile, when the people who were _actually_ supposed to help me were just sitting on their arses. That was impressive. I can only imagine what you’ll do once you’ve got an actual laptop in your hands. I’m positive you’ll be a credit to my… to _our_ employers if we can get you back to London in one piece.”

Some of the tension drained out of Q upon hearing this, and he said, “Okay. Thank you for your help, Mr. Bond.” He smiled then, a tiny, shy wisp of a smile, and Bond’s heart flipped over as he realized, for the first time, that Q was actually adorable.

Shit.


	4. Chapter 4

Bond hadn’t known that he was a Little. Q mused over that as Bond led the way towards the beach - apparently, there were public locker rooms where tourists could shower for free after a day in the ocean. Why would MI6 have chosen to hide that information? It didn’t make any sense to Q. Wouldn’t it have been better for Bond to have come in knowing everything he needed to know about the mission? 

He could understand it if Bond was one of those people who didn’t like Littles, but that didn’t seem to be the case. Though of course, that could change at any moment. Q eyed the broad back in front of him; people moved out of the way for James Bond, whereas Q typically had to fight his way through a crowd. So he was trailing along behind Bond, and every few seconds Bond would peek back to make sure Q was still there.

But was that because Q was a Little or because he was the subject of Bond’s current mission? If it was the latter, Q couldn’t exactly blame him for that. It was Bond’s literal job right now to get Q back to MI6 in one piece. If it was the former… Q didn’t know if he should be upset about that or not. He didn’t know what he was feeling right now. Mixed up and confused and frightened and worried seemed to cut it.

“Okay, shower as quick as you can,” Bond said, and Q snapped to attention as he realized they’d entered the locker room. His nose crinkled when he took in the state of the showers in front of them. He wouldn’t have called them ‘clean’ by any stretch of the imagination.

“Alright,” he said reluctantly, stepping forward and pulling the curtain shut behind him. He tried not to think about the floor as he removed his clothing, rinsing himself off as quickly as he could. The soap was cheap and immediately made the more sensitive parts of Q’s body, already agitated from having sat in urine for so long, break out into the beginnings of a bumpy red rash. Q sighed at the sight of it and resigned himself an uncomfortable few days until he could get his hands on some cream.

He dried himself off using the shirt he’d been wearing, then pushed the curtain aside and poked his head out. Bond wasn’t there, but there was a pile of clothing before the stall with the nappies right on top. He picked up the stack and hurriedly put on a nappy, then followed it up with a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and the sweatshirt. The sweathirt was too big, the sleeves sliding down over his hands, but Q didn’t mind.

He stepped back out to find Bond now waiting for him. Q pulled his old trainers back on and, following Bond’s example, dumped the remainder of his old clothing in the trash. The remaining nappies he tucked beneath his arm. It felt good to be clean again, and Q hoped that the change in clothing would render them at least a bit more invisible than they’d been before.

Though it was a shock to see Bond in jeans and a jacket as opposed to the suit. The casual clothing made him look softer, more approachable. Less like a hardened MI6 agent – though the way Bond’s jacket pulled as Bond turned made it clear that he was still wearing a gun, and Q reassessed that thought. Tailored suit or not, this was still an agent. A 00-agent, no less.

“Follow my lead,” Bond said, as though Q hadn’t been doing just that since the moment they left, and sauntered across the street towards where a lot of tourist’s cars were parked. Q trailed along behind him, glancing at the cars and wondering what Bond was looking for.

“I could hot wire one of these if you need,” Q said at last.

Bond paused. “Really?”

“Yes. It shouldn’t be that difficult,” Q said. “I’ve done it before.” He trailed his fingertips over the handle of the nearest vehicle. Cars weren’t _nearly_ as secure as people liked to believe.

A calculating gleam flashed into Bond’s eyes. “Maybe we should –”

“You there! What are you doing near my car?!” an older woman stormed up to them, wrenching her sunglasses off. “If you two have done any damage, I swear –”

“No damage,” Bond said with a remarkably easy smile. He shifted closer to Q and wrapped an arm around Q’s shoulders. “Apologies, ma’am. My Little here was just tired, and I’m afraid I’ve forgot where we parked.”

_Bond’s_ Little? What?

The woman softened, glancing at Q. “He’s yours?”

“That’s right. I should’ve been paying closer attention to him, but I was searching for my car,” Bond said. He drew Q into him, until Q was forced to either rest his weight against Bond or fall over entirely. He opted for the former, sinking into the warm heat of Bond’s body and letting his head rest against Bond’s chest. He gave the woman a fleeting, coy look, then hastily looked away as though too shy to meet her gaze.

Predictably, she melted further. “Poor dear looks exhausted. You should really get him out of the sun. Littles are so fragile, particularly young ones like yours. Do you need some help finding your car?”

“Oh no, we’re fine. It’s right over there,” Bond said, jerking his chin. He idly rubbed his hand up and down Q’s arm.

“Over there?” The woman followed his gaze.

“Yes, that black one,” Bond said, which wouldn’t have helped her at all considering that there must have been about twenty black vehicles in the direction Bond was indicating. But the woman nodded like that made sense, and bade them both goodbye.

Bond kept his arm around Q as they shuffled away; it was surprisingly easy to fall into step with him. Like this, Q could smell the remains of what must have been Bond’s cologne mixed with smoke and gun powder. It would be easy, he thought hazily, to shut his eyes and just… drift away. To trust that Bond would handle everything, and let him do what Caregivers do best.

Wait.

“Are you a Caregiver?” Q asked, slightly horrified as he pulled away.

“I am,” Bond said absently, glancing back over his shoulder to see if the woman was still watching. She wasn’t. She’d got in her car and was pulling back. When she did look over at them, Bond pasted on a huge smile and gave an exuberant wave. The second the woman was out of sight, he dropped his arm and his smile vanished.

He was a Caregiver. That realization set Q’s heart to thumping against his ribcage like there was a gun pointed in his face. He didn’t know why he hadn’t realized it before. Of course MI6 would send a Caregiver to coral a Little. Bond may not have known that Q was a Little, but he still would’ve had some innate skills to handle the situation if Q’d had a breakdown or slipped out of his adult headspace.

It had been years since Q was anywhere near a Caregiver. No wonder he wanted to fall into Bond’s arms and just forget the world at large. This was bad. So very, very bad. Q licked his chapped lips, trying to figure out what he should do. Being near a Caregiver could put his already tenuous grasp on his headspace at further risk, but it wasn’t like he could run away. Bond was possibly the only thing standing between Q and a drawn-out, gruesome death at the hands of his former employers. 

The thought made a shiver run down his spine. Bond gave him an odd look for shivering when the air was so warm. Q blinked back, pure innocence, and wrapped his arms around himself to better give off the impression that he’d caught a chill. There was nothing else for it. He was just going to have to hold himself together and pretend that Bond was baseline until they got back to MI6, at which point Q would never have to deal with Bond in person again.

“How about that car?” Q said, blindly gesturing to one.

“If you think you can get it running…” Bond trailed off as Q expertly popped the hood and bent his head to his task. Q fiddled around for a couple of minutes, then smiled as the engine thrummed to life beneath his fingers.

“Done!” he said, popping back up.

Bond blinked and then smiled. “Good job.”

The approval settled in Q’s belly like a lightly burning coal. He breathed through the urge to cry and walked around the car without comment, clambering into the passenger side and setting the box of nappies at his feet. It didn’t matter, he told himself. The fact that Bond was a Caregiver meant nothing. Q was just being overly sensitive to a kind voice and strong hands, after years of not having had much of either.

Frankly, he’d never really had a Caregiver. His parents had kicked him out young, and being a Little on the streets was so dangerous that Q had thoroughly ignored that part of himself for a very long time. When he got to MI6, and once he’d got settled into whatever position they had for him, he was going to make that a priority. Surely, somewhere in London, there was a Caregiver who wouldn’t mind a young Little with a penchant for electronics and an overwhelming desire to be cuddled?

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Bond said, slinging himself into the driver’s seat. His smile broadened when he saw that the car had nearly a full tank of gas, and he quickly put it into reverse and back out of the spot.

In less than twenty minutes, they left the town behind. Bond seemed much happier now that they had a vehicle and were putting physical distance between them and the town they’d landed in, whistling under his breath and fiddling with the radio. Q left him to it, quietly leaning his head against the window and watching the terrain. But it wasn’t very interesting, and before long his eyes drifted shut.

“Q. Q, wake up.”

“Hmm?” Q mumbled, barely aware. The car door was he leaning against suddenly disappeared; he would’ve fallen out had it not been for the seat belt across his hips and chest. Frankly, Q would’ve been okay with falling out. He’d never liked mornings, but after weeks with barely any sleep, he was _way_ too tired for this shit.

“Come on, Q. We’re switching vehicles. Can’t attract too much attention,” Bond said in his ear, fiddling with Q’s seat belt. Then that disappeared too, but Bond caught him before he could fall very far and pulled Q out of the car. Q half-heartedly got his legs under him, letting Bond guide him wherever they were going. He stumbled when they hit steps, eyes shut, and Bond sighed and picked him up.

Just. Picked him up.

Like Q weighed nothing.

If nothing else, that _definitely_ would’ve confirmed Q’s suspicion about Bond being a Caregiver if Bond himself hadn’t. Caregivers were stronger than your typical baseline human, and, when Q’s eyes popped open out of shock, he could see that there wasn’t much of a strain on Bond’s face. Most people wouldn’t be able to pick up 68kgs without blinking an eye, but Bond tucked Q under one arm and carried him effortlessly up the steps of the… bus?

Q blinked owlishly, pink with embarrassment, but no one on the bus gave them a second look as they made their way to a pair of seats at the back. Bond set him down and pushed him gently into the seat closest to the window, then settled in next to him. He swung a backpack off his shoulder and set it down at their feet. Q looked down at the backpack blankly.

“Found it in the trunk, along with some supplies,” Bond said lowly. “Figured it was best if we switched, just in case a report for a missing vehicle had been filed. It’s always easier if the police don’t catch up with us.”

“Right,” Q said, or tried to say. His voice gave out on him and it came out as more of a squeak, but Bond didn’t seem to notice; he settled back in his chair and started looking around at the other passengers with a scrutinizing stare. Q watched him for a long moment, then abruptly realized what he was doing and hastily looked out the window instead. He did his best to ignore the memory of Bond’s arms around him, and how very much he wanted that again.


	5. Chapter 5

After being at the safehouse for nearly a week, Bond could honestly say that he was getting cabin fever. He sat down on the sofa and put his legs up on the coffee table, sighing. It had taken him and Q most of the day to make it here, since Bond had planned out a route that purposefully doubled back on itself a few times in the hopes of losing any potential pursuers. So, after that first, both of them had been tired and glad of the chance to rest.

But now… now Bond was getting restless. The safehouse was one of Alec’s, which meant that it was outfitted far better than the usual MI6 safehouses were, but crappy, foreign television and cleaning his weapons could only entertain Bond for so long. He was frustrated by the fact that MI6 hadn’t responded to him yet. What the hell was taking so long? 

It was getting to the point where he was half-considering moving Q back to London on his own. It would be considerably more difficult than letting MI6 do it through official channels, but Bond knew he could make it happen. Like all of Alec’s safehouses, there was a good chunk of money hidden in various places. More than enough to buy a couple of fake passports, if you knew who to ask, and two plane tickets home. Q would hate getting on a plane, but sometimes needs must.

The problem was more that Bond couldn’t be sure if the airlines were being watched. He really didn’t want to have to deal with a gun fight over international waters with Q and other civilians in the line of fire. It would be much easier if MI6 would get their damn arses in gear and do their jobs, but obviously that was asking for too much. Bond glared at his mobile phone like it was the source of all his problems and huffed.

Q stumbled into the room, eyes half-closed, hair sticking up like he’d been running his fingers through it – or, more likely, pulling at it. Bond watched as Q walked over to the counter and stood there for a moment, peering around as though he’d entered a different world and wasn’t sure how to navigate it. He was, Bond knew, most likely looking for either coffee or tea. Probably tea.

“Q?” he called out, just for the delight of watching Q squeak in surprise and jump.

“Wh-what – what – oh, Bond?” Q spun around, nearly losing his glasses from the force of it, and pushed them back up his nose with a shaking index finger. 

“When was the last time you slept?” Bond inquired, genuinely curious.

It seemed to take Q a few seconds to parse the question. Finally, he squinted at Bond. “Why?”

“Because you look like you’re going to collapse on the spot,” Bond said bluntly. It wasn’t a lie. Even from across the room, he could see the puffy, dark purple circles under Q’s eyes. He was also pretty sure that Q had lost a bit of weight, would which make sense. He hardly ever saw Q eat.

“I’m fine,” Q said dismissively, turning away. He made a triumphant sound as he discovered the cannister with the bags of tea inside.

Bond frowned severely, literally biting his tongue to keep himself from making a comment. This was the other reason that being in the safehouse was hard. Never in his life had Bond felt as compelled to look after someone as he did with Q. Whether it was because there was something strangely endearing about Q, or whether Q’s headspace just happened to perfectly match the headspace Bond was ideally suited to, or whether it was because there was no one else around for Bond’s caregiver instincts to concern themselves with: it was awkward.

He told himself, firmly and not for the first time, that he didn’t want to involve himself with Q. It didn’t matter that, as MI6’s new Quartermaster, Q was uniquely positioned to understand the full scope of Bond’s job, not to mention Q would understand why he couldn’t always come first. It didn’t matter that Q had an excellent grasp on an adult headspace, so he’d be able to function well when Bond went on missions. It didn’t matter that sometimes Q was so softly adorable that Bond just wanted to hug him.

He didn’t want a Little. Bond was standing firmly by that no matter how worried he was when Q turned away from the counter clutching yet another mug full of tea and nothing else. He forced himself to stay quiet. It wasn’t his place to tell Q to sleep or eat. He wasn’t Q’s caregiver, and something told him that, once they crossed that line, there would be no coming back.

So, he said nothing, and turned his attention back to the journal he had found online. But when he found himself re-reading the same paragraph over and over, he gave up with a frustrated sigh and stood. Perhaps, he reflected, his time would be better spent putting some contingency plans in place. He could even reach out to Alec. Two 00-agents escorting Q back to England would be better than one.

No sooner had Bond turned to walk towards the bedroom than he paused. The hair on the back of his neck prickled uncomfortably. He lifted his head, eyes flicking around the room. As far as safehouses went, this one was small. There was a kitchenette, a living room, one bedroom, and a loo. Bond had sacrificed the bedroom to Q and had been sleeping on the sofa.

He glanced at the window. They were in a building of flats, and the view left a lot to be desired. He’d get a better view from the bedroom. He took a step forward and then paused, listening intently. For days now he’d been listening to the general noise that came from having neighbours in such close proximity: footsteps, children crying, pets barking. But now, there was nothing. It was _too_ quiet - and much like in a forest when a predator is near and animals stop, Bond knew immediately that something was wrong.

“Q!” he whispered, keeping his voice low. The flat wasn’t bugged; he’d done a thorough sweep when they first arrived, and it wasn’t like they’d left since. But there was no telling who was trying to listen.

Naturally, Q couldn’t hear him. Bond forced himself to relax and kept walking towards the bedroom. He knocked on the door, as per usual, and then opened it. Q was cozied up on the bed, curled around an old laptop that he’d unearthed from the closet the day after they arrived. His cry of joy had been unexpectedly sweet, and he’d delved deep into the laptop ever since. It was a little concerning that Bond didn’t know exactly what he was doing, but it also kept Q distracted so he hadn’t protested too much.

Q looked up when the door opened. His smile faded, changing to something alert. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

Bond put a finger to his lips and stole across the room, peering out the window at an angle. He didn’t want to move in front of it just in case there were sharpshooters. Nothing looked abnormal, but he was more convinced than ever that they’d been found. And if that was the case, he had to get Q out of here immediately. His mind raced for a few seconds, then settled on a plan.

“We need to leave,” Bond said, very softly. “Now.”

“Now?” Q repeated in a whisper.

“_Now_,” Bond hissed, and Q snapped into motion. He grabbed a backpack that Bond hadn’t seen before and threw the laptop inside of it. Then he stood up.

Immediately, Bond reacted. His body was moving before his brain had fully processed what was happening; he grabbed Q around the midsection, yanking him way from the window. They thudded against the wall as the sound of glass shattering echoed through Bond’s ear. He pressed Q to the wall, both arms wrapped protectively around Q. Slowly, he turned his head.

There was a bullet hole in the wall not too far away, exactly where Q’s head had been seconds earlier.

“Oh my god,” Q breathed, trembling.

“Don’t fall apart on me now, Q. I need you to keep it together,” Bond said. “We’ve got to go now.”

Q took a deep breath, lips pressing together, but nodded. He still looked very young and very frightened, but he didn’t crumble when Bond pulled away. All he did was grab his pack, shove a handful of nappies into it, and drop to his knees when Bond pointed at the ground. They crawled out of the room, well out of sight of the windows, and back into the hallway.

There, Bond paused. He knew there were only three exits out of the flat. The living room window, the bedroom window, and the front door. If they had the bedroom window covered, there was no doubt that they also had the other two exits covered. If it were Alec with him, Bond wouldn’t have hesitated to go out the front door guns blazing. But since it was Q with him…

“I have an idea,” Q whispered.

“What?” Bond said, looking at him.

“On the laptop, there were some schematics for the building,” Q said, sounding calmer the more he spoke. “Quickly.” He got up but walked hunched over, scurrying into the loo. Bond raised both eyebrows but followed.

He was utterly astounded when Q opened up the cupboard where some towels and toiletries were stocked and started hauling everything out. Q threw it all to the ground and then started scrabbling at the back of the cupboard. Bond saw the thin line of light, swore softly under his breath, and gently shouldered Q aside so that he could pull at the secret door. It was old and stubborn, and he had to dig his heels in and really pull before it creaked open.

“Bloody Alec, always a step ahead,” Bond said, impressed. He turned to Q, who was scooping more things into his pack. “Good thinking, Q.”

“Thanks,” Q said with a tiny, forced smile. “The other flats should have the same feature… if we can make it to the end one, we might be able to make it into the emergency staircase.”

“Excellent. Let’s go.” He went through first, gun in hand; he’d already raided Alec’s weapon stash and kept several of said weapons on his person at all times for a moment just such as this. The surrounding flats were all empty, either forcibly cleared out in advance or they’d paid people to leave. Bond was little puzzled over the fact that they met no enemies. Had they just surrounded the building? Or had the sharpshooter acted without warning?

They made their way to the emergency staircase and took it down to the ground floor. There, Bond looked out the window again. The street out front was tellingly empty. He thought for a moment, narrowing his eyes at a motorcycle parked across the street. He didn’t have any keys for it, but he was familiar with that make and model. It would only take seconds to hotwire.

“We need a distraction, right?” Q said from behind him.

“That would be nice,” Bond admitted. 

“I can do that.”

“You can?” Bond turned around to see Q fiddling with something. Whatever it was, it was in what appeared to be a shoebox. Q knelt down and tucked it under the stairs.

“I found this in the same closet as the laptop and made some minor adjustments,” Q explained. “It should cause quite an explosion.”

“An explos – is that a bomb?” Bond exclaimed.

Q smiled. “It is indeed. Better move, Mr. Bond.” He got up, his eyes bright with mischief. “In about thirty seconds, this building is no longer going to exist.”

“Well, shit,” Bond said. Q continued to surprise him in good ways.

He grabbed Q’s arm and pulled Q over to the exit door, knowing they’d have to time this right. He counted off exactly twenty seconds, shoved the door open and yanked Q out with him. Ten seconds wasn’t really long enough for them to both get away from the building; the explosions started behind them when they were still close. Bond was launched off his feet and thrown several feet forward.

Apparently, when Q said bomb, he meant a _bomb_.

Bond scrambled to his feet and looked around for Q, finding him laying nearby with a dazed look. Bond lurched over, picked him up, and staggered towards the motorcycle. He couldn’t hear any gunfire, but that wouldn’t last long – as soon as their pursuers recovered, they’d be after them again. He slung Q over the motorcycle, quickly hotwired it, and jumped on in front of it.

That’s when the gunfire started, bullets raining down around them. Bond hunched his shoulders and floored it.


	6. Chapter 6

Q ached from head to toe. Setting off that bomb had helped them escape, but now, roughly six hours later, Q was sorely regretting it. He sank his teeth into his bottom lip to stop himself from whimpering out loud as Bond leaned hard to the right, swinging the motorcycle into a petrol station. They idled up to one of the pumps; Bond put his feet down and shut the motorcycle off. The sudden silence was jarring.

“We need more fuel,” Bond said after a moment. “Pull the hood of your jacket up before you go in. Try not to be seen on camera if you can avoid it.” He swung himself off the bike with such ease that Q was filled with envy. Bond had to be in just as much pain as Q was – certainly, he’d been thrown off his feet just like Q had – but he wasn’t showing it.

After steeling himself, Q gingerly lifted his right leg over the bike and stepped down. A gasp of pain caught in his throat as a full array of bruises made themselves known. He’d landed hard on his left side after the bomb. His left wrist throbbed dully with pain. He didn’t think he’d broken anything, but sometimes a sprain could feel just as bad. Q pressed his wrist to his belly as he hobbled into the station, unaware of Bond’s eyes following him in. 

It was after midnight, and the young clerk behind the counter barely looked up when Q walked in. Q shuffled straight to the back to the loo to clean up. With the door safely shut, he allowed himself the luxury of a quivery exhale. Hot tears burned at his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Later. He could have a breakdown _later_. They didn’t have time for this.

Cleaning himself up was more of a trial than Q had expected without the use of his left hand. He’d wet himself back at the flat when someone tried to shoot him in the head. Sitting in urine for six hours straight had left the start of a rash on his inner thighs. Q tiredly dabbed at the tender skin – he’d have to find a cream later – and wrapped himself up in another nappy as best he could before pulling his trousers back up. He washed his hands, carefully avoiding the skinny, drawn figure in the mirror, and walked out.

Bond had finished with the petrol and was in the station, waiting. He walked over to Q and said, “Do you need anything?”

That was the million pound question. Caught off guard, Q swallowed a slightly hysterical laugh and shook his head. “N-no, I’m – good.”

Bond narrowed his eyes, staring at Q with unsettling intensity, but said nothing, perhaps realizing that this wasn’t the place. He got a few things and then walked up to the clerk and paid. Q lingered by the door, unwilling to go back outside without Bond. He couldn’t shake the thought that someone might have followed them, and that they were lying in wait to get Q alone. His skin prickled and he shivered.

“Cold?” Bond asked, moving up behind him.

Q silently shook his head and walked outside. His aches seemed to grow more pronounced at the sight of motorcycle. The very last thing he wanted to do was get back on it. Had there been a car in the lot, he would’ve suggested that they steal that instead. But they were the only customers, and the clerk must have been dropped off because the lot was otherwise deserted.

“Come here,” Bond said, gripped Q under the arms. He effortlessly lifted Q back onto the bike and then clambered up – behind him?

“Bond?” Q squeaked, startled.

“You’re exhausted and verging on a breakdown,” Bond said bluntly. “We’ve still got another hour’s drive, maybe two if my memory is right. I don’t want you falling off the back. It wouldn’t look very good if you died from a traffic accident, would it?”

“No?” Q said, unintentionally making it sound like a question out of shock. 

“Exactly. At least this way I can be sure you’re still on the bike.” Bond started up the motorcycle, then put his hands on the handles. His arms bracketed Q on either side. 

And it was… oh, it was _nice_. Bond’s arms were strong and sure, and his chest was warm. Q couldn’t help leaning back into him, turning his head so that the wind wasn’t slapping him in the face. He didn’t intend to sleep, even though he was exhausted down to his bones, but he did close his eyes and told himself it was just to give them a break from the wind. He wasn’t used to riding on a motorcycle, after all.

Naturally, it took all of two minutes for Q to start dozing. The rumble of the motorcycle underneath him was oddly soothing, and he didn’t stir until it stopped. There was a moment where everything was still and then Bond shifted behind him, arms moving to wrap around Q’s waist and lifting Q off the bike. Bond didn’t set him down, though, instead holding Q against him with one hand and grabbing their bags with the other. Q was too tired to protest as Bond carried him away from the bike.

He was aware that they moved somewhere inside, hearing the sound of opening and closing doors as though from a great distance. Then Bond was setting him down somewhere soft – a bed, Q registered. Bond pulled Q’s trainers off, presumably so that they wouldn’t get mud or filth on the covers, and then a blanket settled over Q. He opened his eyes, squinting through his glasses, just in time to see Bond’s back as he left the room.

Those acts of kindness – being carried inside and then being put to bed - were too much. Fresh tears rushed to Q’s eyes, but this time he couldn’t hold them back. He shakily removed his glasses and groped around in the dark until he found a safe place to set them down, then rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow. Sobs shook through him, thankfully muffled, as the last tentative hold on his headspace cracked.

Everything hurt, both inside and outside, and it was all Q’s fault. His own poor decisions had led him to this moment, where he was so starved for affection that a bit of kindness from someone who had been effectively paid to save Q’s life was his undoing. If only he’d thought twice about signing up to work with those people in the first place… if only he’d tried harder to escape on his own… if only he weren’t a Little… the thoughts pounded through his head one after the other and made him cry that much harder.

Eventually Q cried himself to sleep, but he didn’t stay that way for long: there was a reason he had not slept while they were at the other safehouse. Nightmares. Whether it was a nightmare wherein Bond showed up too late and Q had already been killed by his employers, or a nightmare where Bond was murdered trying to extract Q, or a nightmare where Q’s employers attacked the safehouse… of course, that last one had actually happened.

Today’s nightmare was naturally about the attack. Q woke up _screaming_ after dreaming that Bond had been hit by that bullet, trying to get Q out of the way, and Q’s employers had kidnapped him and found out that he was a Little and were figuring out what to do him. He jerked himself awake with their evil smirks still passing before his eyes and screamed again when the door slammed open, grabbing for his glasses.

“Q! What is it? What’s wrong?!” Bond stood there, eyes wild and gun in hand. Light seeped in around him, illuminating the small room, but he looked around like he was expecting an army of ninjas to descend on them.

“I – I –” Q gasped for breath, scrambling for some semblance of control. The right thing to do would be to apologize and reassure Bond that nothing was wrong, but he couldn’t seem to string together the right words. He trembled, pressing his sprained wrist to his chest.

Bond seemed to realize what was happening and sighed, putting the safety back on his gun. In lieu of a holster, he stuck the gun into his waistband and glanced around the room one more time before looking at Q. He was cast in shadows, so his expression was hard to make out – and what Q could see what inscrutable. There was a moment of frozen silence that seemed to last an age, during which Q tried not to cry too obviously and hoped that Bond would just leave him to his own misery, before Bond sighed and seemingly came to a decision.

“It’s okay, Q,” he said, his voice very gentle. “We’re in another safehouse. This is one of MI6’s, not my friend’s, so it should be easy for MI6 to find us.” He moved towards the bed and extended a hand.

Q stared at the proffered hand, then slowly looked at Bond’s face.

“Come on,” Bond coaxed, as though he was speaking to a frightened animal. “You were hurt in the explosion, right? I knew you were too exhausted to think about it before, but I’m pretty experienced in patching people up. I promise it won’t hurt.” He smiled, which melted away the remaining bits of Q’s fear.

He put his unhurt hand into Bond’s and let Bond pull him up off the bed. Bond wrapped an arm around Q’s shoulders and guided him out of the room and into a tiny corridor, then out into a living room/kitchen combination. This safehouse was much smaller than the other one, Q recognized distantly as he was pushed down onto the sofa. His eyes wandered around the room as Bond walked away and then returned bearing a kit.

“Are you comfortable with taking your clothing off?” Bond asked.

That immediately brought to mind some of the more unsavoury aspects of his nightmare, but Q pushed that aside quite firmly and nodded. He stood up again and shakily removed his torn and stained clothing, until he was in nothing more than the nappy. Then he sat back down. Bond took over then, his eyebrows drawing together as he took in the numerous bruises, scrapes, and other injuries.

“Your wrist hurts the worst, right?” Bond said, opening up the kit.

Surprised, Q nodded and found his voice. “I th-think I… I landed wr-wrong,” he stammered in a whisper.

“Probably. Here, I’ll wrap that first.” He gently took hold of Q’s wrist, feeling it to see if anything was broken. Q flinched at the pain, biting his lip to hold in a whimper. Bond’s eyes flicked up to him in apology before he took a roll of gauze from the kit and began winding it around Q’s wrist to limit his movement.

“Th-thanks,” Q said when it was done.

“You’re welcome,” Bond said. “Q… feel free to ignore me when I ask this, but have you ever had a caregiver before?”

“I…” Q’s mouth hung open for a split second before he recovered and silently shook his head. 

“But you need one,” Bond said, and it wasn’t question. Nor did it escape Q’s notice that Bond hadn’t used the word ‘want’. No, he’d specifically said ‘need’. A shameful flush crawled up Q’s face, turning even the tips of his ears a brilliant shade of pink. 

He’d _tried_ to take care of himself. Most of the time he was even good at it, to the point where people didn’t know he was a Little unless he opted to tell them his classification – or, like in this situation, circumstances demanded that he share. But even someone as well versed in self soothing and self maintenance as Q could be pushed to their limits, and right now Q was well beyond even that. 

“Shit, no, I didn’t mean it like – ugh.” Bond sat back and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Q. I’m shit at things like this and we’re both tired and I’m pissed off at MI6 so that’s not happening.”

Q wasn’t sure he fully understood what Bond was trying to get at. He cleared his throat, still embarrassed, and quietly said, “Maybe we should sleep.”

“Yeah, maybe we should.” Bond sighed. “Maybe I’ll make more sense after that.” He tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes, and grabbed some more gauze from the kit. As he bowed his head to bandaging a gash on Q’s left shin, Q was left staring at the top of Bond’s head in fatigued bafflement.

Bond couldn’t have meant what Q wanted him to mean by that… could he?


	7. Chapter 7

Bond was unbelievably screwed. That knowledge hung heavily over his shoulders as he finished bandaging the last of Q’s injuries. The _instant_ he’d heard Q screaming, it was like every inch of his body kicked into high gear. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had felt so panicked. In that moment, nothing and no one could’ve stopped him from getting into the bedroom.

And that was a problem.

All of his earlier reasons for not taking Q as a Little had flown out the door in that moment. That had been a surge of instinct unlike anything Bond had ever felt, and it was almost frightening in its intensity now that he was thinking about it. Bond had never been one for soul-searching truths, but kneeling down and looking up at Q right then, he had to admit that he couldn’t honestly say he didn’t want a Little. He didn’t think he could walk from Q now even if he wanted to… and he very much didn’t.

“Bond?” Q whispered, and Bond realized with a start that he’d just been kneeling there staring at Q. 

“Right. Sleep.” He got up and held a hand out to Q automatically. Q’s smaller hand fit neatly in his, curling around Bond’s fingers with surprising strength. 

“I don’t want to –” Q stopped abruptly, reddening again. _Be alone_, Bond mentally filled in.

“There’s only one bed. Guess we’ll have to share,” he said with a shrug. “Do you mind?”

“No,” Q said softly with a shake of his head. 

“Good. Go to the loo and then we’ll go to bed,” Bond said briskly. He could tell that Q needed a change. It was on the tip of his tongue to offer to help, but he stopped himself. That was probably too far too fast, particularly when they hadn’t really discussed anything in great detail. He wasn’t very good at reigning himself in when he wanted something, but Q might just be important enough to change that behaviour.

Or maybe not. Perhaps Q needed someone who would push him. Bond pondered that as he went into the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed. It was a small room, cramped much like the rest of the flat. They wouldn’t be able to stay here for long. Maybe a day, certainly no more than two. The problem was that he wasn’t entirely sure where else they could go.

A door opened and closed and then Q came into the room, rubbing at his eyes. He looked very young just then, and Bond sighed as he realized that he was well and truly gone. Q didn't seem to notice the attention, removing his spectacles and letting them dangle from his index finger and thumb. The strain in his eyes and the lines written across his face when he looked up made Bond angry. Unlike most of the people Bond ran into, Q hadn't done much to deserve this. He'd been young, unwittingly wandered into the wrong hands, and was now paying the price.

"Come here," Bond said, opening his arms.

If he thought Q might argue, he would've been wrong. Q gently set his glasses on the nightstand and then sat down on the bed, obligingly scooting into Bond's arms. They laid down together, and Q rested his head on Bond's chest with his bad wrist held carefully between them. The tension flowed out of him remarkably fast. Within minutes he was fast asleep. 

Bond wasn't so fortunate. He lay awake, staring up at the ceiling. His brain was moving too quickly to afford him the luxury of sleep. Something wasn't right about this, and for the first time he allowed himself to fully contemplate the whole situation. He had already figured out why M had been so insisted on sending him on the mission as opposed to another 00-agent: that had been blatantly obvious from the moment Q admitted he was a Little. It was no coincidence that the age of Q's headspace matched the age that Bond was best suited to taking care of. 

No, that had been deliberate on M's part. She'd sent Bond here with the intention of something happening between him and Q. After all, it wasn't unusual for Bond to engage in flings with women that he met on missions. Adrenaline could be a hell of a drug when it came to bringing people together, though his relationship with Q would be markedly different from the trysts that Bond had previously indulged in. Right now, it was hard to know whether he and Q were really compatible, or if it was just Bond's caregiver instincts going to into overdrive because of -

Because of the attacks.

He narrowed his eyes at the ceiling, taking care to keep his breathing slow and steady to avoid waking Q up. He didn't come into this knowing that Q was a Little. That information was deliberately left out of the file that M gave him; she hadn't mentioned it during their conversation, and no doubt Boothroyd had been expressly banned from commenting on it as well. He could only guess that had been done on purpose because M hadn't wanted him to know – she’d wanted his guard down, at least until after Bond had got the chance to know Q a little better.

But _how_ could she have known that? This was supposed to have been a relatively simple mission, after all. For a normal extraction, which he had done dozens of times now so he was well acquainted with the procedure, he would've rescued Q, gone to the safehouse, handed Q over, and been well on his way to his next mission or back to England within the span of a day or two. Yet MI6 had left them waiting in that safehouse for more than a week.

That in itself was strange. Q's safety should have been a high priority. MI6 agents should've been falling all over themselves to meet up with them and ferret Q away to London, where he'd be relatively out of reach of his former employers. Instead, Q had nearly been shot. He'd been chased through the building and then in an explosion, before escaping on a motorcycle through a hail of bullets. Hardly the sort of priority care that would one expect MI6 to give their future Quartermaster. Bond's lips tugged down in a puzzled frown. Why the delay? Why hadn't MI6 agents been there?

Unless...

What if MI6 _had_ been there? What if...

"Fuck me," Bond breathed as the puzzle pieces finally fell into place, and he realized just how thoroughly M had played him.

Because from day one, this had been a set-up. M had _planned_ this. Q's employers had never been after them, or, if they had, they'd been quietly dealt with long before there was any real danger. Bond and Q had been attacked by _MI6 agents_. It explained why no one had chased after them. It also explained why it had been relatively easy for Q and Bond to escape. It even explained the damn motorcycle, conveniently nearby, full of gas, and easily hotwired. The bloody thing had probably been planted there for just that purpose.

M had done this. M had decided that Bond and Q would be good together. Of course she had. Pysch thought that Bond needed a Little. Who better than MI6’s future Quartermaster? If M had Bond’s Little under her thumb, that was an excellent way to control Bond. Likewise, if Q’s Caregiver worked for MI6, then Q would be that much more inclined to work for MI6 too.

He clenched his free hand in fury, grinding his teeth together. He didn’t like being made a fool of, and that feeling weighed uncomfortably on his shoulders right now. He should have put the pieces together sooner than now, but lack of sleep, frustration, adrenaline and his tangled feelings towards Q had prevented him from examining the situation with any degree of clarity.

There was a chance that he was wrong, but Bond really didn't think that was the case. And if he _was_ wrong, well... The fact remained that MI6 had been sloppy this time. Dangerously so. Q's safety was Bond's priority, and maybe it was past time he started to rely on MI6 to do their part. They had money. Bond had stripped Alec's safehouse of money and kept it in his pockets, just in the event that they had to run. But MI6, or Q's employers, wouldn't necessarily know that they had money. The flats had gone up in an explosion and they were likely still combing through the wreckage.

The real question was how they were going to disappear. He was certain that they'd probably been followed, or at least tracked. If he was right and MI6 was behind this, then MI6 likely knew that they were here simply because this was the closest safehouse. They needed somewhere to go that no one else knew about. Bond had no such places set up at the moment. That was an oversight on his part, owing to a mission a few months ago where he'd needed to hole up safe somewhere. He'd been forced to pass the coordinates to MI6 at the time, and hadn't had the chance to set up a new place.

But he knew who would. A slow, devious smile spread across his face as he fished his mobile out of his pocket. He wasn't actually sure if it was safe to use, being that Boothroyd had given it to him. They definitely would have a tracer in it, and there was a good chance that Q-branch agents were listening to his conversations or at least monitoring what happened on the phone. So that was out. If he could get his hands on a cheap burner phone, he'd long-since memorized all of Alec's numbers. Unless Alec was deep undercover, he'd pick up at least one of them.

He lay awake for the next couple of hours, plotting. Shortly after 4am, he gave Q a gentle shake. "Q, you need to wake up. We have to talk."

"Can't talk. Too tired," Q mumbled, tucking his thumb into his mouth and settling more firmly on Bond's chest.

"You don't have to talk, but you do need to listen. We can't stay here. I think that MI6 might be the ones after us, not your former employers," Bond told him.

That definitely woke Q up. His head lifted, fear in his unfocused eyes. "Wait, you mean that MI6 has gone evil?"

"What? No." Bond suppressed a shudder at the thought. If M ever went rogue and decided that she wanted to rule the world, there wasn't going to be much that anyone could do to stop her. Fortunately for the free world, M's loyalty to MI6 ran deep.

"Then... I don't understand." Q squinted.

"I think... Bloody hell this sounds ridiculous... but I think this was a set-up. To put you in danger and make me care about you," Bond said reluctantly, well aware of how ludicrous it sounded. "MI6... their psych department, they think I need a Little to better stabilize myself. I've been resisting all this time. I suspect that M saw her ideal opportunity to finally make some progress on the matter. Damn, I hate it when she's right." He muttered that last bit more to himself than to Q. It was incredibly annoying to know that M would be able to lord this over him for the rest of his life.

"Wait," Q said. "When she's right? So... you do want me as a Little?" He sounded rather amazed about that.

"Well. Yes," Bond said, glad that Q couldn't see very well at the moment. "If you want to - but I thought we could discuss that later."

"Later?" Q echoed. He rolled away, groping around for his spectacles until he found them and jammed them onto his nose. When he came back, his eyes were intent on Bond's face like he could glean information through osmosis alone.

"We need to get out of here. If I'm right, and MI6 is behind this, then it won't be long before we're under attack. I don't think they'd hurt you..." Here, Bond hesitated because he couldn't say that with certainty. It was easy for a bullet to go off-target. Q could have been killed in that explosion. That was the problem with M. She came up with grandiose plans that always worked, but she often forgot about the human element of it all. 

Then again, M probably thought she had nothing to lose. Bond was a good 00-agent, but he knew that he was replaceable. There would always be another agent who was eager to climb the ranks and be given a license to kill. Q was exceptional at what he'd done so far, but Boothroyd didn't _have_ to retire just yet. If M needed to find someone else, she would. If she could get Q and Bond into a solid relationship, so much the better. If one or both of them died in the process, it would be a pity but nevertheless worth the risk. It was cold, calculating, and so befitting M that Bond couldn't believe he hadn't figured it out right from day one.

"But you can't be sure," Q finished. It was hard to tell what he was thinking. He certainly didn't seem as close to his headspace as he had before he'd slept, but Bond suspected that Q wasn't as together as he was pretending to be.

"No. I wish I could, but I can't. And that's why we need to be careful about how we do this," Bond said at last. 

"They probably think I need a caregiver too. Most people think that way about Littles," Q said quietly. 

"Probably," Bond said. Knowing what he knew about Q, they were wrong. Q was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. He had been for years now. He honestly pitied the person who underestimated Q, because they were in for a rude awakening. 

Which was exactly why Bond smiled as he laid out the bits and pieces of the plan he'd put together thus far. Q listened quietly. When Bond was finished, Q thought for a few moments more before he opened his mouth and set about laying out a frankly ingenious plan that would get them away from the safehouse without anyone noticing. It really wouldn't take much effort on either of their parts, and it would give Bond the opportunity to get his hands on a burner mobile phone if he played his cards right. From there, he could contact Alec.

"What happens after you contact your friend?" Q asked, running a hand through his hair.

"After that..." Bond couldn't contain a chuckle. "After that, my dear Q, you and I are going to take some time for ourselves to figure things out."

"So we're not going back to MI6," Q surmised, and Bond shook his head. Going back to MI6 would just give M what she wanted, and there was no way that was going to happen. No. Bond had something else in mind entirely. 

"We will eventually, but that old bitch deserves to be left in the dark for a while. First, we're going to _disappear_."


	8. Chapter 8

M sipped from her cup of tea, letting no expression come to her face. Across from her, Tanner shifted uneasily. Boothroyd was more comfortable, sitting with one leg crossed over the other drinking his own tea. M allowed the silence to drag on until finally, she set her tea down, leaned back in her chair, and opened up her desk drawer. She pulled out a bottle of whiskey and poured a generous helping into her cup, then did the same to Boothroyd's cup when he held it out invitingly. Tanner made choking sounds as M added a smaller dollop to his cup, then put the whiskey away.

"Seven bloody weeks and not a hide nor hair from either of them," M spat, grabbing her cup and taking a healthy swig. The whiskey burned across her tongue, but it did little to lift her spirits.

Almost seven weeks ago to the day, James Bond and Q had gone off the map. As soon as MI6 had realized what was going on, they had responded accordingly - but it was too late. Bond was a master at disappearing when he didn't want to be found, and Q's deft touch with technology really was unparallel in many ways. Boothroyd and Tanner had put the best that MI6 had to offer on the search, but none of them had been able to turn up anything. It was frankly embarrassing, not to mention infuriating. When she saw Bond again, she was going to wring his neck!

Tanner glanced between her and Boothroyd before clearing his throat. "I did attempt to reach out to 006," he said.

M's scowl deepened. "Let me guess. He was unavailable to answer your call," she said, resigned. If there was one person that Bond would trust at MI6, it was Alec Trevelyan. There was a reason why M usually tried to make sure that the two of them were never in London at the same time: they were complete _menaces_ when they were together. Yet, that hadn't stopped the two 00-agents from forming a deep, seemingly unbreakable bond. There was no doubt in her mind that Trevelyan was aware of where Bond was right now. And where Bond was, Q had to be there too.

"I did get the chance to talk to him for a moment, but he was rather unhelpful," Tanner admitted.

"What did he say?" M asked, not sure if she really wanted to know.

"He laughed. A lot," Tanner said, sighing. 

Boothroyd chuckled. "You'll never break 006. That's a path you don't even want to try going down," he told M, and the worst part of it all was that he was _right_. She couldn't even threaten Trevelyan with treason or being fired, because Trevelyan's loyalty had always run more towards Bond than to MI6 itself.

"So then what do you recommend?" M said tightly. 

"Let them come home on their own time," Boothroyd said, gently swirling his cup of tea. "You know that Bond will find his way back. He always does. And I suspect that this time, he'll bring Q with him."

M set her jaw. "And if we have need of them in the meantime?"

"If we did, I'm sure they would come," Boothroyd said. "Tanner, would you excuse us?"

"Certainly," Tanner said, a little too quickly. He got to his feet and practically fled. 

"Well, go ahead. You've been dying to say something and now's your chance," M said as soon as the door had swung shut. Unlike most MI6 employees and agents, Boothroyd had been here as long as M had and had never hesitated to speak his mind. She braced herself as Boothroyd gave her a frank look.

"Have you considered that you pushed too far this time?" he asked.

"No," M lied.

Boothroyd didn't believe that for a moment. He shook his head. "You know that Bond would do anything for you, but you really out-did yourself this time with your manipulations. You purposely set him up with a Little that you _knew_ he would come to care for. You put the both of them in danger twice. I know the first time was necessary, but the second wasn't," he added when M began to respond. "The second time was entirely because of your own plans, because you thought you knew what was best and because you thought Bond wouldn’t figure it out. If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times: stop underestimating our agents! They are smarter than you give them credit for, particularly your 00-agents."

"It was to help Bond," M snapped, unsettled by what felt suspiciously like a scolding. "He needed a Little. He was becoming dangerously unstable, regardless of whether he wanted to acknowledge that or not."

"But did you ever stop to wonder if that was what Bond wanted?" Boothroyd said, raising an eyebrow.

"Bond is like a child. He doesn't know what he wants," she huffed.

He conceded that point with a nod, but said, “This time though, you weren’t just meddling with Bond. You involved someone else as well. Someone who, if you’re correct, is now very important to him. It stands to reason that Bond would have deviated from your script in order to protect Q.”

Yes, perhaps that had been a miscalculation. She’d known from the beginning that it would be a gamble, but she had hoped that it would pay off. Bond was adamant about not wanting a Little. He just needed a push in the right direction. What better way to do that than to put a prospective Little into danger? And it wasn’t _real_ danger – all of the MI6 agents on the job had strict instructions _not_ to hurt Q less Bond go into a killing rage. 

But Boothroyd was right in one respect: she had forgot how bloody smart Bond could be sometimes. In retrospect, it wasn’t surprising that he had figured out what was going on. She knew Bond well, but that meant he also knew her well – probably better than any other agent did. He was probably pissed at her right now, she reflected, and was reacting childishly as a result by going completely off the grid with Q. That was the part that frustrated her the most. She hated it when Bond managed to one-up her!

At last, M said, “I still think it was necessary.”

“Even if Bond never returns?” Boothroyd said, sounding genuinely curious.

“I believe he will,” she admitted. “Bond lives and dies for Queen and country.”

“He has something else to live for now,” he pointed out. “Any sane person would argue that Bond has more than done his duty. 00-agents rarely retire happily. Perhaps Bond could be one of the few.”

It sounded reasonable yet sat wrong. M shook her head. “I don’t believe it. He would go crazy without a gunfight on a regular basis. You and I both know that he needs the adrenaline rush. And Q seemed very excited about mentoring under you. If they are still together, Bond wouldn’t deny him that.”

Boothroyd cocked his head. “You believe they may not be together?”

“Bond has a way of surprising me sometimes,” she said grimly. “He knows I set this plan up. I wouldn’t put it past him to cut off contact with Q just to spite me. Or they could’ve been incompatible.” She hated to acknowledge that possibility, but it was true. On paper, Q and Bond lined up marvellously. In person, there was always that pesky human element. Based on all the reports, it seemed like the two of them had been getting along – but that could also be attributed to Bond’s determination to see his mission through.

“Hmm.” Boothroyd drummed his fingers against his lips, looking thoughtful. He offered nothing more, probably because he knew she was right, and M sighed as she finished off her spiked tea. Then, because it was only Boothroyd in the room, she refilled her mug with pure whiskey and then sat there frowning into it.

They both jumped when her intercom rang. M recovered quickly and hit the button. “Yes?”

“You have a visitor, Ma’am,” her secretary said.

“I’m busy,” M said.

“They’re rather insistent.”

M sighed. That could mean anything from an aggravated agent to the head of a department complaining about funding. In a sour voice, she said, “Very well, send them in.”

As the door swung open moments later, she discovered that it was the former. James Bond, dressed in a three-piece, black bespoke suit with a blue tie that matched his eyes _exactly_, strolled into her office with a cocky smirk. Q followed on his heels; he wasn’t wearing a suit, but he was wearing a white shirt, black tie and blue fitted jumper. Both of them looked polished and put together and _immediately_ set M’s teeth on edge.

“Hello Mum,” Bond said grandly. “Boothroyd.”

Boothroyd didn’t even attempt to hide smirk. “Hello Bond. You must be Q.” He set his mug aside and stood, reaching out a hand. Q grasped it and shook.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Q said, eyes warm behind his glasses. His expression cooled significantly as he turned to M and added, “And you must be M.”

“Where the bloody hell have you been?” M demanded, disregarding Q entirely. 

Bond smirked at her. “After all the work you did in trying to force me and Q together, I thought you’d approve if the two of us took a trip.”

“And you didn’t think it was necessary to tell anyone here of your plans?” she said tightly.

“Well, you didn’t tell us about your plan.” He shrugged glibly. At his side, Q smiled faintly.

M glanced between the two of them with an air of dawning horror as she realized that her plan had worked a little _too_ well. She had never seen Bond completely at ease with anyone but Alec Trevelyan, yet here stood one of her most dangerous 00-agents with her future Quartermaster well inside his personal space. Bond was relaxed in spite of Q’s close presence even though there were barely a few centimetres of space between them. 

She suddenly foresaw a future in which MI6 was supported on the back of these two men who were going to be – or who _already were_ \- utterly tangled up in one another, and cursed herself for her lack of foresight. Bond was going to be a menace, and it seemed like Q was cut from a similar cloth. This was going to be a nightmare and she had no one to blame but herself.

Q’s smile widened, as though he had perfectly interpreted M’s thought process, and said lightly, “I’ve been informed that we are required to report any personal relationships. Mr. Boothroyd, please consider this my official registration of James Bond as my caregiver. I understand if that means you’d rather I didn’t join your group.”

“Nonsense!” Boothroyd exclaimed almost before Q had finished speaking. “Of course I still want you. When can you start? Tomorrow? Now?”

“Now sounds lovely,” Q said, smile becoming a little more genuine. He glanced at Bond, and there was a slight pause during which the two had a silent conversation through facial expression alone, before Q turned away and stepped towards Boothroyd. In less than a minute, Boothroyd had swept Q out the door and left Bond alone with M.

“I hate you both,” M said as the door swung shut.

Bond burst into laughter. “But your plan worked! You should be pleased,” he said with a smirk.

M glowered at him. “You know damn well why I’m not pleased. Seven weeks, Bond!”

Some of his humour left his face. “We needed the time, Q especially.”

“Was he hurt?” M said, thinking back to the reports. They hadn’t indicated any major injuries, but none of her agents had got a good look at Bond or Q either.

“Not physically,” Bond said. There was a glint in his eyes that suggested no more details would be forthcoming no matter how much she demanded it. M quelled her frustration before it could show.

“And now?” she said.

“Now he’s my Little,” Bond said, a trace of pride in his voice. “Congratulations, you won.”

But she hadn’t won at all, and they both knew it. This was the moment where she could’ve been petty and put him on some sort of forced leave, but there was a good chance that Q would leave with him and then Boothroyd would be angry… and she did so hate it when Boothroyd was angry at her. It made life exceedingly difficult when none of the electronics in her life obeyed her.

“There’s a mission waiting for you,” she said instead. “I hope you and Q have spoken about logistical matters.”

Bond nodded. “We’ve worked things out.”

“Good. Here’s your file.” She pulled the file out of her drawer and tossed it on her desk. “Now get out.”

He took the file and tucked it beneath his arm. “I feel I should thank you,” he commented. “That was the best vacation I’ve had in years.”

“_Get out_, 007,” she snapped. Grinning, he went.

Alone in her office, M sighed loudly and tossed back half the contents of her mug. The whiskey burned pleasantly on the way down but did little to placate the aftertaste of having been so thoroughly beaten – and by one of her own, no less. Still, she couldn’t deny that, overall, she wasn’t unhappy with how things had turned out. MI6 would have a new Quartermaster when Boothroyd retired, Bond had a Little and reinforced ties to MI6 to boot, and Bond had only blown one building up in the past two months, which was a new record for him.

The future looked bright. She smiled with satisfaction and finished off her whiskey.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/).


End file.
